


Strike Me Down

by still_loading



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Not Beta Read, Post-Peaceful Android Revolution (Detroit: Become Human), Reader struggles with vulnerability, References to Depression, Slow Burn, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, gavin being gavin, police officer!reader, sparring buddies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-12-03
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:41:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27292867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/still_loading/pseuds/still_loading
Summary: You never make it to the coffee maker before the rest of the precinct. Always too late and always finding the empty beaker-- along with a disgruntled Detective Reed. You just don't understand why on-top of the disappointment you have to also experience this loss with him almost every time.
Relationships: Gavin Reed/Reader, Gavin Reed/You
Comments: 2
Kudos: 62





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Tbh, I never really expected to post this--or at the very least let this be the first fic I enter the DBH fandom with (i do have a few that I'm working on rn but not fleshed out enough where I'd start posting them anytime soon). I think I just reached a point in the draft-version where I believe it's been developed enough so I wouldn't really have to worry about this becoming incomplete/discontinued in the future.
> 
> With that being said, not sure how many chapters we're looking at. But I do hope you enjoy the ride if this is your cup of tea.

"Ya'know for a human, you could blend in as one of those plastics without even trying."

Your eyes narrow at the cup of freshly made coffee you've brewed. Perhaps it represents a spiritual reminder that you could just never get the right timing to make it to the coffee maker before the rest of the precinct. Always too late and always finding the empty beaker.

For all that Detective Reed is worth, you always somehow get lumped into experiencing the loss with him. Your timing is as equally bad as his since it seems you're wandering into the breakroom during the same intervals. Certainly he wasn't pleasant to be around in a working capacity. Apart from the handful of colleagues at work that could truly stand his confrontational nature, it's difficult to even imagine him being any different after hours.

"Hey, New York, ya' _mind_? I need caffeine."

You don't even look at him, you just feel the familiar tension turn in your shoulders that seems to always come when Detective Reed bestows you with any amount of attention (regardless of how unwarranted they were).

You bite back on the urge to mock faux gratitude in his stead, ' _thanks for the coffee_ ' you'd say, dropping your pitch low enough to rival yogi bear at best. Then, Reed would realize that voice was supposed to be his and give you shit about how it didn't sound like him at all. Not at all referring to your vocal interpretation but because _'I'd never thank you for somethin' I can do myself, New York_ '.

You've been through this scenario before.

This time, you silently retreat back to the comfort of a desk adjacent to Connor's own in the ballpen, stationed at the very corner. With an assignment to shadow Lieutenant Anderson and Connor in the field a few days out of the week, you're juggling between studying for the detective examination and witnessing Hank and Connor's partnership with cautious optimism. It's been a week so far and you're due to take the exam by the end of the month.

You're from New York and the rest of the precinct is more than aware. Detective Reed had given you the nickname involuntarily and it has followed you on your patrols like a shadow. While at first you felt endeared by it, now it seemed more of a reminder to being an outsider. Perhaps a reminder not to let the Detroit precinct get too close. Sometimes you wonder if they remember that you have an actual name.

Setting the cup of hot black coffee on your desk, you first opt for fixing the cuffs of your uniform as you roll your wrist. The desk work is far from your alley and its starting to take a toll on your joints. Connor sitting beside you considers you thoughtfully.

"Patterned hand-use as done with spending days at a desk consistently typing may cause numbness and tingling in the hand."

You glance at Connor to see his attention is solely fixated on the movement of your hands. Briefly you're self-conscious by the attention but steadfastly refocus your train of thought on opening and closing your hand to will away the uncomfortable numbing sensation.

"Can I get you something to help ease your discomfort, (YN)?"

You observe the android carefully out of fascination rather than discomfort. You wonder what Connor sees in those innocent doe-eyes of his that seemed to appeal to a softer side of yourself. An easier and more approachable integration design he explained himself upon your first meeting. With another sigh you shake your head once, biting back on a curt 'no'. It's difficult being moody around Connor, deviant or not. You'd like to think he was indirectly helping you become a better person or at the very least, a more tolerable one.

"Unless you have a cure hidden in that processor of yours, think all I can do is roll with the punches on this one."

Connor does not immediately respond but his chair does roll closer to your desk. His hands enter your perspective as he reaches out cautiously, surly giving you enough time to pull away if the intrusion made you uncomfortable. But youre more stunned by his hands having very human warmth to them you realize that the background noise had also been Connor talking. He's demonstrating how to accurately massage to alleviate the pressure before advising you to seek professional medical guidance should the symptoms progress.

"It would be very unfortunate for the precinct if you're unable to continue with us on the force due to health-related concerns, Officer (YLN)."

You stare dumbly at him a moment too long until he's tilting his head, face expression going blank.

"Sorry, I- thank you Connor. I appreciate your help. Really you have no idea."

"I simply demonstrated how to properly massage your hands. It's of no inconvenience to me whatsoever."

Then as if on cue, a loosely wrapped manilla folder taps the top of Connor's well-kept hair, a few strands falling over his forehead. The android flinches in surprise and spins around in his chair. You both see Hank standing with an expression of near fond exasperation.

"Fucking-A, Connor. Just say you're welcome." Hank jerks his chin over his shoulder. "C'mon kids, its almost time to meet up for some interviews."

-

It hadn't been one of your choice reactions given the location but again, Detective Reed simply just had _that_ kind of timing. Bad timing. That, coupled with an insufferable attitude—well, you're not entirely too surprised that this was how your emotions decided to dictate your actions. Some days were better than others, that's just how it went.

You neglected to consider the extra fifty pounds of muscle or the several inches of height Reed had on you because somehow he was still plastered roughly against the wall. Your police academy training still held strong in self-defense. You've wrenched his hand against his lower back with the potential to be painful. The front of your body is pressed flushed against his back to keep him in place.

"The hell's gotten into you, New York?"

Reed's voice is hoarse, not at all what you were expecting but you don't loosen your grip. Instead you press Reed further into the muted green wall.

"Today's not the day to piss me off." You sneer at his shoulder blade.

Up close and personal, you easily pick on the sharp citrus scent, sandalwood mingling with hints of nicotine. A part of you _likes_ the scent but you don't let that realization linger. When you're angry, you clung to it. Anger felt like something whereas every other emotion felt distant and fleeting. They never stayed long enough. After a beat, you've calmed down a notch. You ignore the slight guilt of forcing anyone into the receiving end of your behavior but you'll stew in that later. You back off.

Like this, you and Reed were on even playing-ground. This outburst has shown him your hand now, you're not the well-behaved uniform officer you've made yourself out to be. Where he is a proud-asshole, you're covert and restrained with your asshole-tendencies. Until now. You had expected a reaction, Reed takes a fistful of your collar, yanking you forward and raising you off the ground. Even if you'd been expecting it, your breath still catches in your throat. Your toes barely keep you in-contact with the ground.

His face is a few inches away from your own. Reed's eyes up close are a startling gun-metal color that you haven't noticed. Right now, they measure you intently, something in the silence and concentration in his gaze tries to tempt you to make a move like that again. Reeds breath, a spiced peppermint scent, tickles the bridge of your nose.

"You wanna' fight?" He growls. But there's an edge of curiosity in it as if he was genuinely curious. But why?

"Tonight at 730, third floor communal gym." You part your lips, ready to remind Reed that you did not have access to the third floor gym but he soon adds, "I'll leave the door unlocked."

And he promptly shoves you backwards, turning away not to see you crash into one of the tall tables. Barely saving yourself from planting on the cold tiled floor.

It's as you're straightening yourself to look presentable that you know not to let your guard down. Reed was clearly up to something and being alone with him was quite a distressing thought when you don't know what more he was capable of. There was still a couple hours of your shift left until then, plenty of time to lay out some safety precautions in case.

Connor's attention automatically lands on you when you return to your desk. You should've done a better job of fixing yourself.

"Are you alright?"

"Never better."

You glance at Connor and notice his LED cycle a steady warm yellow before returning to blue without further commentary. Your eyes brush over Hanks desk, stiffening when you also make the mistake of meeting his eyes. While Connor is highly informative, Hank had intuition. He certainly would have an inkling of what was possibly going on. His attention shifts. When you trace the stare to its end-point, you find Reed at his desk eyes narrowing back at Hank.

Shit, Hank was good.

When Reed's eyes fall on you, you sense the silent threat in them. You silently reprimand yourself for walking into the proverbial lions den and getting a target painted on your back. This was not the way to smoothly get that promotion. You grimace at the thought of setbacks. With Reed in the equation and Hank somewhat privy to it, there's bound to be problems.

-

You take the elevator to the third floor to find a dimly lit hallway, all lights on power-save mode and otherwise only activated when they sense motion. At the end, a set of transparent doors that required a badge to swipe. With each calculated step, you begin reminding yourself of every way this could go wrong- Reed could be looking to get you to a place where it would be easy to enact revenge for your earlier behavior. Easier to blame any injuries on workouts gone wrong. Hell, he might threaten the stability of your job. The ideas tug down the corners of your lips. Whatever it may be, you know to expect it not to be good. Not to only be a fight.

Once approaching the doors they slide open automatically. He kept his part of the arrangement. You proceed inside cautiously, overhearing the thudding and jingles of a punching bag being used. Its the only sound echoing through the spacious room. Almost as soon as you stop several feet away, Reed's hands drop to his sides. They catch your eye immediately, noting the bandaged wrappings. He might've been at this for a while now. The collar of his short-sleeve shirt is starting to darken with sweat. You don't stare too long.

"Well, look who actually showed up." Reed fully turns to you now. "I don't know what's worse, a runt like you thinkin' they can take me down or havin' to put you back in your place without an audience."

You haven't moved a muscle, but Reed approaches you predatorily. He must smell your anxiety and irritation like blood drawing in a shark.

"I was promised a fight."

"It speaks. Thought I'd be talkin' to myself all evening." And you would've let him if it were easier to restrain your emotions around the detective. Reed has a knack for inciting friction in other people, criminal or not. He could make a hobby out of it if he knew how to turn it on-and-off.

It's always like this. The condescending attitude and the underestimation. You've spent a good portion of your life learning to be self-sufficient, dipping your toes in various areas to become more well-rounded. You figured that if you couldn't quite find a reason to live, helping another to live long enough to realize theirs was probably as good as it'll get. You pull out your tucked uniform shirt, loosen the first few buttons of your collar and fold up your sleeves just above your elbow.

When you turn around, Reed's eyes fall on your exposed forearms, a cluster of tattoos there that you refrain from showing off during work-hours. You wait for him to comment on them, to press your buttons about how edgy or stupid the choice was to even get a tattoo or that many, but he doesn't. The silence was in-fact relieving and a welcomed change of pace.

"Cat got your tongue, detective?"

His eyes snap back to meet yours and he scoffs, eyes averted before he turns and walks towards the mats. You follow from several feet behind until he comes to a stop in his next step.

"No broken bones and not the face, y'got it?" Reed turns, rolling his shoulders back and bouncing in place.

"Got it."

Reed, a fan for boxing, would be focused on keeping himself on his feet. You make a mental note of this. He'll find it difficult to move too much or adjust to quick changes in position.

You're quick on your feet, moving and bouncing like you have wings on your heels. Reed's eyes pinch at this, having been stubborn to keep rooted to his spot like a tree and try to connect his fists with any bit of flesh he can catch. None of them connect outside of a brush of his knuckles. You don't know if he's holding back but if the impatient expression on his face is anything to go by, his restraint was thinning as much as his self-control.

On his next punch, your arm hooks outside of it, quickly moving behind him to knock his knees down and subdue Reed against his back. A DTT; you apply a little extra to the actual trained technique you've learned from the academy.

"My point." You add unnecessarily but you do get a bit of satisfaction from hearing him hiss under his breath (Pck). You promptly release him.

A mistake you realize in hindsight. As quick as you are to release him he rolls over, swiping the world from under your feet to tackle you into the mat. The air leaves you upon impact and you almost laugh because of course Reed wouldn't play fair, of course on top of being an insufferable asshole he also found it easy to play dirty and cheat. He really was a cop after all.

"Guess whose point _that_ is." He smiles smugly down at you, his grip on your small wrists not loosening whatsoever. "Friendly tip, just 'cause you caught a suspect doesn't mean they'll always surrender."

Maybe, maybe not. Unless that suspect's Detective Reed, you doubt they'd have a risk anything with a loaded gun or taser pointed at them. But you digress.

"Speaking from experience?"

"You think all these scars are for nothing?"

You consider that. Another laugh threatens to spill pass your lips at the thought of Reed letting a suspect get the best of him. Your lips all but twitch in response.

"Get off. Lets go another round."

Reed obliges.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, maybe I neglected to inform you of the tattoos you have on your arms-- it was the day after the android revolution and you told me, 'who the fuck cares!' as we charged into an android tattoo-shop in celebration. It's really a shame you don't remember this.
> 
> On a more serious note, don't worry, the existence of them doesn't really reflect in the story aside from brief mentions. You're free to ignore details as you'd please.


	2. Chapter 2

"Good morning, Officer (YLN)." Connors voice chirps upon your first step into the ball-pen.

"Mornin' Connor," Your eyes shift over the desk partition and you nod despite being unseen, "Lieutenant."

Even if you could barely see the bunch of silver hair, Hank grunts into his arms. He looks equally as tired as you feel. You haven't had your own coffee this morning so the garbage-brew of the precinct will have to sustain you until lunch time. This does not make it any easier to enter the break room and come face to face with the empty coffee beaker.

"What the fucking hell." You grumble under your breath, anger charging your next movements as you maneuver around the breakroom to assemble the next brew. 

You curse the sadistic fuck who places the coffee filter on the highest shelf in the cabinet. Tip toing first, the tips of your fingers barely brush it even as you're leaning against the counter. You glare up at the packaging as though your eyes could will it to maneuver more to the ledge out of fear. _Inanimate objects do not feel smartass_ , (but so didn't androids a year ago) you sigh. Again you try to reach, adding a small hop and your fingers finally graze the plastic. Alright, just one more jump—

Another hand reaches over you, briefly you feel the weight of another body against your shoulder blade and you stiffen. Suddenly frozen by the intrusion into your personal space. The maroon colored sleeve is familiar. Once retrieving the filters, the hand does not offer them to you. The sound of rummaging from behind you brings you to a sight of Detective Reed now preparing the coffee brew, attention not focused on you. But you're sure he knows you're staring.

"If you can't reach the filters you could've just asked someone for help." Reed comments offhandedly, an edge to his tone. Annoyed, perhaps? He might've been expecting to find a fresh pot waiting for him as well.

"I didn't need help. I almost had it." The response didn't carry its usual bite, only sounding more petulant to your ears as you overthink your tone. Sleep hadn't come as easily the night before, your body ached uncomfortably from sparring and resulted in tossing and turning for over an hour.

That gets Reed to finally look at you, having just finished prepping the machine settings. The coffee will take at least ten minutes to brew. You didn't need to stay and you probably shouldn't, all things considered. You might get tempted to shove his face into the floor instead of the wall this time.

"How about you just thank me for helping out by letting me shove your face into some mats."

Your jaw ticks, forcing your eyes away. "Give me a few days."

His lips twitch into a familiar sneer, "Fucking _scared_? That's all you had to say-"

"I'm fucking _sore_." _And exhausted_ , but that's not something to point out. Fighting Reed now would just inflate his ego. You nor the rest of the precinct needed the extra headache. You leave the break-room before you act impulsively. That wasn't something you wanted to make a habit out of even if you've developed some kind of familiarity with Reed.

"You find yourself some coffee?" Hank says, his face twists the longer he stares at you. You simply shake your head hoping to pass off the frustration for there being no coffee. "Is that asshole Reed giving you trouble?"

Your eyes flicker to Hank then. The wrong thing to do. The hesitation in your response not going unnoticed and likely won't help your case regardless of how you answered Hank.

"I can handle Reed's bullshit." You say, spinning absently in your chair. "How the hell does the coffee go by so quick?"

"Haven't a clue. Tastes like motor oil." Hank mutters, but you stop spinning in your chair and shake your head at the ceiling.

"You don't mind it when Connor brings you a cup though." You look over an notice Connor's attention is peaked, raising from his terminal to look between you and Hank. "What's your secret, Con'?"

"The coffee machine only requires a button to be pressed..." He speaks slowly, eyebrows furrowing as his LED flickers between blue and yellow, "I do not know what I could do differently that would affect its tastes as profoundly as you claim."

Hank rolls his eyes, "Fuckin' android-thing for all I know." Silently, you agree with this assessment.

Connor looks at a loss for what to say. When his eyes land on you, you're ready to offer a small reassuring smile. "Hank and I love your coffee making-skills."

This seems to only appease him for a moment before he's reluctantly returning back his work. You submerge yourself into your terminal, where you're inputting written reports taken through the night into the system. During lunch, you review the state and local laws in Detroit. After re-reading a sentence more than three times you admit that it's difficult to keep focused. You're not retaining the information and something so _simple_ gets you frustrated. You never made the best student, always somewhere between scraping the worst but not being enough to be the best. You were average in your studies and you admit that the lack of support has caused you to stray. Jump around career fields until police work finally felt like something tangible that you could sink your teeth into.

Having been too focused on your inner conflict, you find yourself outside the third floor gym. Hours later, after your shift. The doors aren't opening, Reed wasn't there. Why would he be when you said a few days? It doesn't deter you from glaring at the card scanner or the pitch black interior. Light from the hallway barely reaching the equipment to reflect.

Dumb idea. You should just join a boxing gym, maybe take on a more healthy and safer hobby to take the edge off. Most people would. But you still don't think it'll be enough.

There is a sound in the distance, it hadn't immediately registered until heavy steps close in on where you stand. You look up, already finding Reed's eyes on you. An unreadable expression on his face.

"Thought you said a few days."

"I need this." The distraction to feel capable. You needed the reminder because the information-dump was doing everything but that. Even if Reed were to get an ego-boost from it, you figured that it's a necessary evil. "It helps."

It helps keep you on track, helps keep you from dropping everything at the first sign that things may not work out as easily as you'd thought. Your next exhale is shuddered, a weird sensation of goosebumps trailing your arms under the uniformed top. You feel Reed's eyes bore into your side-profile. Maybe he began realizing that you often tried to put yourself in shoes that are always too big. Chewing more than you can swallow.

The doors to the gym slide open and Reed mutters something under his breath (C'mon) before heading inside first. Your eyes shift toward the space he once stood, slowly moving to follow Reed's back as he saunters inside.

This time, the sparring doesn't carry the same weight of playful competition. Something about it has fundamentally changed.

It might've been each time where Reed managed to subdue you that he'd explain why your attempt to counter him failed. It might've been when he'd catch your eyes and push you to use more force even if it may be dangerous. It might've been while you were hunched over yourself on the mats, head hanging between your bent legs as you tried to catch your breath.

"You're gonna' feel worse tomorrow, jus' sayin."

There's a quick pat to your back, Reed's hand lingers a few seconds past casual and the difference of a few seconds stalls your thought process. You don't say anything but close your eyes and try to regain composure. Deep breath in, then out.

"Ya'know why I fucking hate Anderson?"

The shift in conversation hadn't been in the direction you'd expect.

"Youngest Lieutenant ever, a damn good cop too. When he lost his kid, Fowler let him get away with all kinds of shit."

A familiar jingle followed by a series of thudding, you glance over to Reed to find that he returned to his spot in front of the punching bag.

"Guy's a fucking natural, guys like me? We can try to work our asses off, but it's not all about the hard-work. And _that's_ what pisses me off. Anderson's had everything handed to him from the damn get-go. Never had'ta work hard or put in too much sweat. Never had'ta prove his fucking worth." Reed's next series of combos hit harder, they echo against the corners of the spacious and empty room. "People just fuckin' _knew_ he was the real deal."

You swallow thickly when the realization dawns. It's similar. The same inferiority complex and of course of all the things you'd possibly bond over with your colleague, it would be _that_. You scoff out loud, the sound surprising even you. That wasn't meant to happen. But as quickly as it happened, Reed also came to a pause in his movement.

"You got somethin' to fuckin' say?" He snaps, "'Cause I got loads of shit to say about _you_."

"M'not laughing at you." You don't look at him as you lay down on the mat, staring up at the hanging LED light fixtures. "Laughing at myself."

A beat of silence, then:

"See _that_ shit, New York? Fucking keeps people from being in the same room as you. Hell, they even forget you're in the room until they almost bump into you 'cause you're fucking _short_."

A clear jab to incite a new round of sparring, you're sure. But you don't take it. You were already sore from the night before, now wasn't the time to try and see how far you can push your body.

"So, this is what you do instead?" As quickly as you begin, you realize you should stop, "You become the guy that everyone can't stand working with? Where does that get you?" You should shut up, you were in no better position to be scolding Reed with how he coped with his emotional turmoil.

"Fighting you, fucking _android-wannabe_." He snaps, "You think you're all high-and-mighty 'cause you don't step on toes and hide behind Anderson and that plastic prick? Goodie two-shoes over here does what she needs to just to get by! Where does _that_ get you?"

"Fighting your ugly mug." You mutter under your breath.

"The fuck you say?"

You wave him off.

Reed heaves a frustrated groan before there's an onslaught of hits against the punching bag. Clearly he's holding back from adding something more. Something that'd possibly be too significant to ignore.

"Anyway, what could _you_ have to say about me that you haven't already said?" You're half-curious, exhaustion fueling most of it. You've got enough of an idea of how Reed already perceives you.

Reed uncharacteristically says nothing. The silence is unnerving. He might've noticed more than he lets on, more of your short-comings or inexperience. Surely he had a lot to say about some transfer patrol-cop suddenly considering detective. Someone like him _always_ had something to say. You almost want to taunt him into telling you everything just so you can make the proper adjustments so no one else could point it out. The longer the silence stretches, the more you're putting a microscope over yourself. Re-evaluating your work ethic, the lack of progress you've made in reviewing the cases you've been helping out on. Just because you get a good score on the exam doesn't mean you'd have talent for police work when applied to real life on the street. You swallow thickly and quickly shove yourself onto your feet. The clock was ticking and the evaluation is drawing nearer. This was the last place you should be because you _should_ be hunched over a case, building on experience, asking Hank for input--

"Maybe you should take it fucking easy on yourself."

Reed's voice makes you stutter into your next step, just as your fixing your uniform. You look at the mirror, easily finding and meeting his gaze in the reflection.

"Don't give me that look. Swear to god, you need to fucking chill out. Don't know if you're just spendin' too much time with Anderson and his plastic pet but you're not a fuckin' android. You forget? You bleed _red_ , not blue."

Your eyes drops, unfocused at whatever's at the end of your gaze. On your next inhale, you feel it deep in your chest, expanding your lungs. You don't know what to make of the statement. Not quite sure whether to focus on the strange comfort of the words or the confusion of having Detective Reed of all people being the one to say them to you. There was never a set date when you noticed yourself change, day by day your emotions chipped away piece by piece. Subtle. Then a moment, when there was nothing. You're devoid of emotions. Anything would've been an improvement; the ability to feel anything had been gone for a while. 

Sometimes you forget you could bleed. Like an after-thought, you realize now that he aims for your face because he knows you can dodge it. You've entertained the idea of allowing Reed's fist to collide with your face just to remember the bitter iron-like taste of blood on your tongue. But then that would be hard to deflect on when you expect swelling and bruising for the next week. It wouldn't be so easy to brush off when Hank would lay eyes on the beauty and have something to say about it.

"I don't feel enough." Just as quick as you've confessed it, you feel your stomach drop. It's barely above a whisper, you doubt Reed even heard it. He's one too many steps far from you. 

Mechanically, you fix up your appearance to look somewhat presentable to make the trek to your car without raising eyebrows. Reed hasn't said anything but you can feel his eyes following your movements. This wasn't good. You're reluctant to admit that the private sparring matches with Reed did at least help take the edge off the stress and self-pity. 

-

A few days have past since your mind began to classify the confession as ' _the_ night'. You haven't stepped foot into the break room and by extension, haven't given fate the opportunity to leave you in any space alone with Detective Reed. You've racked up about twenty-five dollars this week on hipster coffee from a small cafe by your apartment. Sure, it taste a hundred times better than the garbage grind in the break room, but did it _really_ have to be five dollars for a medium-size? You push thoughts about the sparring to the backburner, quietly determined to drown it with procedural facts and your most-recent witness follow-ups. Some hours it works, others you're more focused on keeping your attention pointed at anything outside of the direction of Detective Reed's desk.

Hank has caught onto something. Always ready to add something when Connor excuses himself. His mouth would open but promptly close as if he changed his mind from mentioning it all. At this observation, you add 'avoid being alone with Hank' onto your set of tasks--just under avoiding Reed.

Which is why you're thankful for being in a patrol car for the later days of the week. Surely A saving grace, all things considered. Your temporary partner is Officer Tina Chen. Both easy-going and professional, you sense that spending more than a couple hours in the same patrol car won't be too brutal.

"New York's a ways away from Detroit." Officer Chen begins an hour into driving along the suburbs of Detroit. You break your distant gaze at the city's skyline to find her glancing at you curiously. "What's so good about the DPD?"

It might've been sarcasm, a small attempt to breach the silence since first entering the car.

"Needed a change of scenery." You would've been satisfied with leaving it at that, but partners worked best when there was some familiarity. "Don't get me wrong, I like New York as much as I hate everything about it. Ever visited?"

Most of the people you knew in New York often talked about moving out West or down South where the weather wasn't so cold. Suns and hot beaches. While you could see the appeal during a vacation, truth was that you liked the cold. Teeth chattering, finger-numbing cold that made you awake, alert, a little more alive. You couldn't picture it any other way. Detroit kept to that promise and so far, it's a welcomed change of pace. Once you gave into the flow of conversation, Officer Chen is easy to plow forward into minutes worth of monologuing her list of places she'd one day like to visit. You listen to her thoughts and prod with curious questions just to make sure she knew you were listening and the ride had been surprisingly easy. You find yourself relaxing against your seat in a way that you resist when you're not around Hank and Connor.

"So," Chen hums, the car coming to a stop at the next red-light. "Heard from a little birdie that you've been getting on Gavin's nerves lately."

Her tone is light, playful. For a second, you could've sworn that the news was music to her ears.

"Don't let Fowler hear that you're talkin' to birds, Chen. It isn't healthy." At first, you felt that you've overstepped boundaries but when she turns and lightly shoves your shoulder with a surprised scoff, you exhale a sigh of relief.

"You even deflect just like him." Her face scrunches, continuing to drive. "Oh my god, this is gold."

Before you're able to press on the comparison, the radio crackles to life with a code from dispatch. Something between dread and anticipation as it's clear that your patrol car is the closest to the call. As you watch Tina bring the speaker to her mouth, you face forward, straightening in your seat.

"Second week in Detroit and you're already getting your hands dirty in a call of a shooting. Lucky, much?"

You don't respond, not thinking that the word lucky belonged anywhere near that sentence.

When it came to territorial-gang wars, there were bound to be injuries. Most gang members had terrible aim. The ones still lingering at the scene aren't impressed when faced by Tina's hand-gun. The tension is thick in the air, almost tangible weight on your body threatening to bring you down. Between the pair who had been caught and Tina, there's a man gunned down on the ground. Still very much alive but groaning in pain. The pair are adamant about not following Tina's instructions even when adding a well-placed fuck into the command (Get on the _fucking_ ground!).

Reaching for your receiver, you call for emergency services before retrieving a shotgun from out of the trunk. You don't intend to use it. It should already have a round ready in the chamber but for a moment like this, you jack in another round. It makes a satisfying "snick-snick" that snaps the pair's attention straight to you, rounding the side of the patrol car. This, gives them pause. The caliber paired with the close range, you're sure you'd be sprayed with their blood and tissue. You're sure they know it too. Eventually they get on their knees, Tina making quick work of patting them down and handcuffing them.

You set the shotgun back in the car watching as emergency services arrive on the scene. Because you are the officer with least seniority around, you begrudgingly have to be the cop to ride to the ambulance with the guy. En route to the hospital, you quickly find that he's not so interested in talking to cops, more so fixed on squaring things up himself. He doesn't otherwise try to talk unless it's to voice out his pain. When later your gun-shot victim gets his morphine, you get a name that quickly pulls up a laundry list of criminal history. Mostly misdemeanors.

The discovery had been completely unintentional. Coming across the reported claims of a fight-club but a lack of evidence available to plan out a full-scale surveillance and crack operation. You weren't expecting to find anything, just an empty warehouse on the outskirts of Detroit, uninhibited with no signs of life. You expected to just have to turn away and complain about wasting gas but when you catch a few silhouette figures disappear past the side door, you begin re-evaluating your options.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here was a chunky update.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, after some thinking, I'm aiming to have this completed within the span of 7 or so chapters. Hence, the updated chapter-counter! If that were to change, they'll be reflected as such. Might aim for a Saturday-update routine, but nothing's written in stone.

"Now, who are you s'pposed to be, babe?"

A few feet away now stood a handful of men. 

Nearly thirty minutes have past since you’ve last caught sight of people entering the venue. Loitering off to the side looking dejected, you may have been hoping that an attendee would take pity on you and invite you to join their party. Other possible approaches seemed demanding and all too time-consuming.

“It was supposed to be my first time here, but I had a falling out with my friend.” The awkward laugh, fingers brushing the loose strands of your hair behind your ear; it’s all performative.

The men appeared within their late-twenties to early-thirties. All with layered clothing to combat the Michigan chill that came once night fell. They appraise you from where they stood. You can feel your blood swirling in your ears, a similar response you’ve had when you arrive to a scene. The natural responses to adrenaline. 

“Would’ve been nice of him to ghost me before we planned to meet all the way out here.” You add, trying to smile, but you could feel your face messing up. Maybe that was a good thing.

A few of them begin to stray away, walking towards the woods. Then, there had been one of the men who stayed behind. He hesitates as he approaches you. Had you actually been on the prowl for an attractive man, he might've not been your first choice. But for the moment, you don't dwell too much on the superficial aspects. He's your key into the fight club and it would be in your best interest to remain on his good-side.

“I come here the same night every week. You can tag along with me— if you’re okay with that?”

It was now or never. 

Your head jerks into a nod, “Y-yeah, that’s really nice of you.”

In a matter of minutes, you’ve exchanged phone numbers with him, found out his name is Gabriel, shared some brief conversation on the weather before he had sped-walked to catch up with his group of friends. Although not to raise suspicion, you continue to linger outside the warehouse for another fifteen minutes before returning to your car. 

-

As the days went by, the text conversation you’ve maintained with Gabriel continues to show potential. While it may not be professional to always look or glance down at your phone, it’s important that you maintain decent communication. For the most part, people enjoy attention.

"Yo Anderson, here's the updated files about the latest Red Ice guys we have a few patrol cars on." Then, there's a plop of said-files on Hank's desk.

You haven't heard Reed's voice in almost a week. A win, for sure. But something about the gruff tone has your ears perking up, back straightening subconsciously. Ah, right. You're in the waiting game-- caught between wondering when it'll happen and how it'll happen. When you thought Reed had wandered off, you lift your head from your phone to find him lingering. Eyes already staring you down when you seek him out.

Frustrated, jaw clenched. He wants to say something just like Hank. Always close, but hesitating or backing out last minute. Always something getting in the way. Weird when it's Reed doing it because Reed didn't come with mouth filters. He didn't hesitate. Cruel or antagonistic, he'll say it without blinking an eye regardless of the consequences most of the time. The implication that it's something even he couldn't bring himself to say off-handedly must mean something and you're not entirely sure you really want to find out. At least, not any time soon.

"Is there somethin' else you need, Reed?" Hank's voice interrupts the moment, returning the default nose-scrunching sneer back to its rightful place on Reed's face. Something about it seemed off, not carrying its usual temperament. "Last I checked you got some reports backing up and Fowlers ready to re-evaluate that folder of yours."

Reed hadn't looked at Hank, eyes kept on yours through the exchange. "Fuck off Hank, mind your business."

"When you're tormenting one of my officers, it becomes my god damn business."

You clear your throat and are the first to shift your attention back to your phone. A new text notification, but you’re not reading the preview, more aware of Reed’s indistinct grumble before Hank's heaving sigh is the signal that the other detective has finally made himself scarce. Locking your screen and putting it off to the side, you look up once more at the previous place Reed had once been. A sigh of relief.

"Now it's pretty easy to piss off Reed, but it looks like he really has it out for ya. What did you do?"

"A mystery." Your teeth pull over your bottom lip to help stifle a chuckle, "You detectives like that sort of thing, right?"

Hank, unimpressed, shakes his head with his face in his hands. "Don't try and make me work durin' my lunch break, kid."

-

The following week comes both too quick and too slow. Your body is buzzing in anticipation, every ounce of effort you've poured into this week-long relationship paid off. The crowd of yells and jeers, the smell of alcohol and blood thick in the air. It is everything and nothing of what you're expecting. Walking beside Gabriel, your eyes instinctively scan your surroundings; a large cage at the far end of the floor, worn down upholstered couches pressed against the walls, stock tanks filled with wood and garbage to keep the flames burning bright. Nothing like the movies.

"Do you ever fight?" You ask Gabriel, eyes fixated on the two men currently going at it within the steel cage. They’ve drawn in a small crowd but most of the attendants loiter in groups in various corners of the space.

"God, no. I just bet here and there. I'm friends with some of the fighters but I'd get my teeth knocked in-- one hundred percent. They're animals around here."

"Would you bet on me if I tried out a match?"

You sense the hesitation in Gabriel's response masked by the forced laugh. You take it as a 'probably not' especially as Gabriel tries to shift the conversation topic for letting his hand linger over you hip. You don’t blame his skepticism. It easier to pretend it's not there when you're fixated on the moves of the fighters. Street fighting at its finest.

At the end of the match, the winner, a heavy-set man that easily towered over 5'11 saunters casually through the cell. He raises his arms high, commanding the louder screams of his supporters. You lift your head towards the energy and realize that there also was a second floor, full of spectators. They lean over the railing with their raised beer bottles. The announcer draws back your attention as they call for any interested fighters in the audience to come and test their luck. You take one step, then another, followed by the one that leads you to the only door to the cell. Gabriel who'd been beside you tries to get your attention ('Hey, where are you going?', ' _Hey, hey_ , you're going to get hurt!'). They were all justifiable concerns, but you had your mind made up. Your presence lingering outside the cage-door draws the attention of the victor, a sick and twisted grin pushes his lips into a mocking laugh. It all but fades once you shed your jacket and enter the cell, not quite knowing what was in store for as the cell door locks with a heavy 'clink-clunk'.

No going back now.

-

Monday came too quick for the bruises and soreness of your limbs to remedy themselves from being noticeable. A particularly nasty one peeks from under your uniform sleeve while another decorates the inner crook of your neck. Otherwise not immediately noticeable unless someone looked too long or if that someone also had an advanced processor.

While winning the match by the skin of your teeth, you've sustained enough minor injuries to make walking naturally a mission all on its own. Gabriel hasn't texted you since the brief text conversation you had that night (' _did u get home ok?_ ', _'yeah thanks for helping', 'np'_ ). Having been too absorbed in the aches, you reach the break room to the familiar sight of an empty coffee beaker. You begin assembling the next brew, moving in slow and calculated movements, never over-extending your arm, considerate of how much weight you put on your right foot. You're too pre-occupied by the pain to be pissed for a few seconds by another empty pot. When you open the cabinet to glare down the package of coffee filters, you're relieved to find it's now on the lowest shelf.

Though, it doesn't seem to make a difference because as you reach for it, something pulls painfully in your arm socket that has you wincing. Taking a step too many back until you're bumping into the chest of another person. You flinch away, turning much too quick for what you could handle on your right foot, a snap of pain shoots through your ankle.

"Fuck."

"Walkin' pretty funny there, New York." Impeccable timing as always. "Should've used a safe word."

Your lips twitch but you wouldn't give Reed the satisfaction of actually letting him know he can be funny. You settle for glowering at him as you swallow your groan.

"What's up with you?"

Hiding your injuries from the average person would’ve been less taxing but much like Hank, Reed has his own detective instincts and a pair of working eyes.

"Took a bad landing while helping an old lady with her grocery bags." You scoff, leaning against the edge of the counter to control your breathing. But it's your third set of ins-and-outs and your sore spots are still achingly interrupting your concentration.

"Think you're funny, smart-ass?"

"What's it to you?" You snap and something cracks in his expression. Something briefly concerned and conflicted.

"You're fighting someone else now." His voice is neutral, not accusatory or betrayed. This, however, doesn't change that you don't like when he's like _this_ \-- whatever this was. At least when Reed threw a tantrum or pranced around the precinct with smug bravado you knew how to react accordingly. Now, it wasn't so clear-cut. "You're limping around like you're Anderson's age, barely sittin' in your fuckin' chair... God it makes my neck hurt just seeing it. No one's gonna' sit like that unless it hurts like a bitch to sit another way."

You laugh at the evidence he's observed. At every inhale, your torso stings to contain it. Those aren't your laughs, they're broken and hoarse. A hollow shell of what sound they'd normally hold.

"You got jokes." Regardless of whatever Reed has observed, it's best to brush over his prodding questions until you've got a straight-story without any holes for doubt.

"You're not foolin' anyone." His voice stronger than you’d expected. Reed tilts his head, leans forward with a biting smirk pulling his lips wide. The presence of it raises the hairs at the back of your neck, dreading what may come next. Someone like Reed would take it as a personal challenge to get you to admit it. "You know how I know?" His voice goes low, eyes never leaving yours until his hand reaches out and snatches your arm in a firm grip.

Your reaction is quick, a quiet yelp and your body is curling into Reed's hand trying to pry off the tension. "Let _go_." You growl through gritted teeth.

Reed's hold on you isn't tight enough to hurt an uninjured arm. But in this case, he applies enough pressure to a blossoming bruise hidden under your sleeve. His grip lingers despite your visible pain until finally releasing, a few seconds later.

"Fuck."

Reed got all the confirmation he needed. His jaw clenches, eyes darkening and gaze focused off to the side. The hands at his sides open and close surely looking for something to do with them. Reed backs off, seething.

"We're talking after work." He says it like it's definitive and you suppose it is when he storms out of the break room before you had a chance to argue otherwise. You watch him push between other uniformed officers on his way out. Reed doesn't look back even as they call out for him in confusion.

-

Pushing through your shift without the strain being evident was stressful. Regardless of your attempts, fate was never one to make it easy. Nor were you expecting it to suddenly take pity on you but maybe a part of you was hoping that lady luck would smile down on you just this once... Surveillancing sites, investigating potential leads and ending the day with more questions than answers, today's made it clear that she's giving you the cold shoulder. 

You're sure Connor notices, which also meant that Hank couldn't be too far behind in suspecting something similar. The car is uncharacteristically quiet, Hank's collection of metal-bands was not currently giving you a headache. Neither did you miss that headache however...

"Why’s it so quiet in here? I could've sworn I had a routine headache scheduled today." You sit awkwardly in the back seat, absently plucking off the dog hair that stuck to your uniform. You’ve been preparing yourself to have this conversation, to see Hank’s face fold and Connor’s LED stuck on a color other than its default blue.

"Out with it."

Connor's LED quickly catches your attention, reflecting against his window pulsing yellow for a few moments until returning to blue. His head turns to glance at Hank beside him. Hank sighs deeply, eyes flickering to meet yours through his rear-view mirror.

"You're obviously feelin' worse than you let on. Guess the million dollar question is, is Reed doin' that to you?"

You blink once, twice then a few times more to wrap your head around the implications of the question. Warmth starts to creep up your neck, filling your cheeks. You're glad its too dark in the car to really notice.

"In what world— No, Christ, no. What makes you think—"

"Word got out that a few people saw him hurtin’ you in the break-room. Was waitin’ on hearing it from you when you wanted to talk about it."

"Additionally Officer (YLN), you're suffering from several contusions most likely spread from your abdomen down to your limbs, all varying in placement but considerably fresh and couldn't be more than several days old given your lack of mobility." Connor turns and faces you from over his seat just then, "However, I'd require a visual examination to offer a more accurate evaluation—"

"Jesus fucking Christ, Connor!", "You scanned me?"

Connor jumps in his seat and looks alarmed as he exchanges looks between you and Hank. He deflates, lips pursed and puppy-eyes unfocused.

"We've talked about this Connor, you can't scan people without their permission."

"My deepest apologies, Officer (YLN)."

"Listen, if that asshole is giving you trouble, you tell Fowler." Hank says once they've came to a stop in Detroit traffic. "Fowler's a good one and he's one of the few people Reed will actually listen to. Nothin' scares that bastard more than losin' his badge."

The turbulent car ride has left you off kilter, suddenly aware that when you return to the precinct you'll have to face the music and deal with Reed. Something flutters in your throat. Nervousness? It causes your heart to beat loudly against your chest, even Connor barely moves in his seat for the rest of the drive. The topic of Detective Reed always eliciting some extent of discomfort in the android. You're relieved when Hank does decide to turn on the radio, masking the strain in the air with the classic songs of the 2020-decade.

Arriving back to the precinct, Detective Reed lingers at his desk well past the end of his shift. His eyes catching yours when you enter the ballpen trailing behind Connor and Hank. Despite your insistence that Gavin wasn't the perpetrator for your injuries, Hank didn't seem convinced. Which had been why you were anxiously nibbling on the inside of your cheek, hoping Hank wouldn’t start something upon noticing Reed.

But even that kind of hope seems too naiive.

"Don't you got better places to be Reed? We already gotta worry about you during the day. I dont wanna have to see you on my way out too." Hank sighs, closing his terminal and locking his files in his desk.

"Aw you're worrying about me, Anderson? That's sick. Why don't you hurry on home so that glorified fleshlight can work its magic on you?"

The android in question barely acknowledges Reed, Hank falling into line beside Connor as he considers you wearily.

"Ya'got my number right? You know how to contact Connor too?" You only nod, "If that asshole lays one unwanted hand—hell, if he even breathes on you, call. Don't give a shit what time—well I do, but Connor doesn't. So—"

"Call Connor."

"Atta' girl." He claps your shoulder as he moves past you, Connor bids a quiet 'good night' following at his heels.

Once they disappear beyond the security checkpoint, your gaze slowly falls back on Reed, an immediate change to his demeanor as you approach his desk. Less territorial, less brazen.

"Talk."

"Nice to see you too, (YLN). Not like it's been a week or anything." He says, lightly. Still not looking up at you since you've approached, his eyes more distracted by whatever his thumb is swiping through on his cellphone.

"Heard you gave a few gangsters a scare with a shotgun." Reed shakes his head, a dry and mocking laugh as he continues, "Wouldn't know whats so scary about some pipsqueak waving around a rifle, but hey it got the job done."

Not quite sure if it was Detective Reed's own brand of approval or simply a back-handed compliment, you don't comment. Something of a habit you're slowly picking up from Hank when it came to tolerating Reed. Sometimes some fights just weren't worth fighting for. In Detective Reed's case, it's about ninety-percent of them unless he actually raises his fists.

"Whoever's your new partner isn't holding anythin' back."

Your eyes avert. Of course they weren't, they had bets pulling in more than a few grand on their victory. And you had threatened their reputation and came out of the fight, battered and bruised but with some money in your pocket. Takeout from the fancy gourmet burger place in your neighborhood is so much more appetizing with a heavy wallet. But you're sure that engaging in violent behavior would raise a few alarm bells at the precinct. It wouldn't be smart to keep the habit unless you got better at hiding it--or just got better at fighting in general. At the moment, you're sure that this won't happen over-night.

“If that’s whose got your face glued to your phone, let me be the one to tell you that we don’t need another half-baked detective around here with personal issues.” _Around here_ , you’re always on the edge. Buzzing with something fear-inspiring and razor-sharp that seems to always come to a head with Detective Reed. If only the frigid Michigan cold could take it away.

"It was a calculated risk." Thing was, you were never the brightest bulb when it came to math.

Reed scoffs. "Calculated huh. Funny you say it like that." After a few taps on his phone, he's turning the screen to face you. A familiar warehouse and suddenly your breath goes cold. The color leaving your face with the sigh. You swallow thickly, keeping your eyes focused on the photo. It's the same photo from the report but there shouldn't be a reason for Reed to bring it up with you.

"Imagine my surprise when I decided to look through the files after a month to see that the last time it was opened was about a week ago. Not by me--that's for sure." Reed's voice remained light, speculative. But you knew he was suspecting there to be a link or at the very least, he's attempting to confirm the connection he has made. "What a coincidence you're banged up pretty good not too long since the folders' been accessed."

You bite your inner cheek, trying to remain blank and as neutral as you had been when you first approached Reed. A mock interrogation and Reed was making some assumptions that pointed in the right direction, towards the right person. Maybe all hostility aside, he really could be a good detective after all. 

"The names of the guys Officer Chen arrested pulled up earlier reports of trespassing and vandalism at the location of your case." You explain easily, trying not to care and to believe that Reed was the crazy one for even thinking this would be a big deal.

"Watch yourself, if I get wind that you're trying to steal a case from me to cinch in Detective, I'll make your life hell here."

"There's nothing really interesting about abandoned property." You shrug because innocent people shrugged. You also make sure to shrug once more when Reed does look up at you from his phone. He didn't buy the shrug. "If all you wanted to talk to me about was your cold-case, can I get going now?"

Reed doesn't move from his seat and by extension, you're inclined not to move either. He didn't look convinced but it also didn't seem to be the only thing on his mind.

"Have you been icing it?" You blink owlishly down at him, wondering if the inquiry was something you've imagined. Then, he finally looks up at you, eyes narrowed. " _At all_?"

Clearing your throat, you unconsciously hide your arms behind your back, "Here and there."

"You're supposed to ice yourself for more than just a _few minutes_."

"Guess that means I still look like shit." You snort.

"You move like shit too." Reed shakes his head, finally standing out of his seat and slipping on his jacket. Before he moves around you he says, "You better learn to ice it or else someone's gonna' notice-- and I'm not talkin' 'bout Anderson or his boy-toy."

Your eyes brush over the empty desks in the ball-pen before settling on Fowler's office.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me just, *gives you an ice-pack*-- there we go. Gavin's just being Gavin. He's got that tough-guy schtick ingrained into his bones by this point. Showing that he cares is still something he's trying to work towards.
> 
> Gavin, in the distance: Hey!
> 
> Me, looking over my shoulder: Shit, he noticed me.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A---nd we're back with an update! 
> 
> As a head's up, there is a scene mentioning domestic-violence this chapter. The domestic-violence does not involve any of the main-characters. Since it isn't a recurring theme in the overall story, I don't think it's necessary to add it in the tags.

The pain helps you shake off some of the fogginess. Even as your limbs scream for you to stop, you keep moving. At each stab of discomfort, your brain becomes clearer, reality shifting into sharper focus for brief moments at a time. The fight has come to a stop, the crowd quickly dispersing into different directions. Instead of taking a hint, your opponent takes the opportunity to lay a few dirty moves before running after the crowd. The blaring noise of emergency vehicles continue to grow closer to the warehouse. You have to leave while you still had a chance. 

As you stagger outside, towards the brush, you notice another person hadn't moved in the midst of the panic. A fleeting glance and you can recognize Reed immediately or at the very least a look-alike. Tugging the hood of your hoodie further over your face, you don’t linger long enough to find out whether you’re right. You manage to limp half-way through the open field. With every step, came the unfortunate realization that your career was probably going to take a hit and there'll be some disciplinary measure waiting at the end of this. The possibility of a promotion would be off the table for a while. A question at the edge of your consciousness whispers, _was this all really worth it_? It seemed to come out of nowhere.

Almost reaching the safety of the forest, you collapse just shy away form some shrubbery. Somewhere between conscious and unconsciousness, you’re present during the hard motions, you pick up the potent smell of sweat and nicotine instead of dirt and salty-river air. Your limbs leaden and thoughts barely coherent. 

When you come to the first time, you don't pick up the initial whiff of antiseptic. There isn't the steady beep of an EKG monitor at your side monitoring your heart rhythm. So, no hospital. But there is an uncomfortable rumbling in your stomach. Nausea threatens to crawl up your throat. Where ever you are is quiet apart from the atmospheric ambiance of city traffic slipping into the room from beside you, a small bit of air tickling your neck and the back of your hand. Then, there's muffled voices further away.

"Reckless self-endangerment?", "I know… urge", "What are you … Gav?", "… fuck I look like, T? … don't fucking..."

Harsh whispers with emotions filling their tone. Your body relaxes, subconsciously recognizing the voices. You gave into the desire to fall into unconsciousness once more, the drowsiness being far stronger than your curiosity to figure out the situation. The next time you stir it's to the sound of loud purring and a small bit of pressure against your waist. Eyelids heavy as you blink away the bleary edges of your vision, you find an unfamiliar popcorn ceiling. This must be what it's like running into a wall at full-speed, head split open and aching. The source of the purring has stopped and instead has chosen to poke it's head into the corner of your vision.

A small solid white cat with startling blue eyes matching their blue collar. On the center of the collar, a small bell that jingles lightly as the cat tilts their head. The corners of your lips twitch. Pleasantly surprised, you figure that there were worse ways of waking up.

"You wouldn't happen to know where I am would ya', lil' guy?" Your voice is dry, you can only try lapping your lips with saliva before you stiffly move to regard the room you were in.

The room itself is sparse with no decorations or distinguishing characteristics aside from the peeling paint. Not even photos or posters were pinned onto the walls. Just the basic essentials, a dresser, bed, nightstand and a desk. You didn't recognize the room or the feline that came with it. A lot of the night before has been blacked out between new injuries and the urgency of running from any familiar faces. Had someone taken pity and helped you dodge the cops? Looking down on yourself, you're not wearing the same clothes. These clothes were too baggy for your small frame, underneath the sleeves peaked bandage wrappings. They didn't make it any easier to move. Your heart thuds loudly against your rib cage, anxiety urging you to leave before you find out what did happen.

You roll yourself towards the edge of bed, the cat easily moving out of your way but hovering closely nearby as they continue to meow softly. The pain hadn't been as worse as you've remembered nor do you feel like your stomachs upside down. You just might be quietly grateful that the stranger had taken the time to patch you up.

"Fucking Christ, Casper I already fed--"

You freeze at the voice. You’re half-way to the ground when you look over your shoulder to find Reed—clad in sweatpants and grey tank top— stunned into silence. It's clear he wasn't expecting to find you awake and eagerly moving around so soon. A muted rage contorts his face as he stands at the door threshold regaining his wits.

"Better fucking think _twice_ about runnin' off or else I'll handcuff you to my bed." The timbre of his voice was low-pitched, hard. He wasn’t bluffing. You nibble on your bottom lip, suppressing the shudder at the sound of it. Let’s just put that reaction on the shelf for later consideration.

You don't move. "What am I doin'ere? How...?"

"Oh, did you actually want to get arrested?" Reed steps further into the room, looming over you. Sensing your pause in movement, the cat—Casper, Reed had called them-- jumps back onto the bed. The bell on Casper’s collar jingles as their paws climb and walk over your back, the tips of their nails lightly pricking through the fabric. "Say less and I can--"

"You know what I mean."

Reed barks a laugh, crossing his arms over his chest. "Gotta' say (YLN), I knew you were weird but I totally wasn't expecting this level of _fucked up_."

Where before you'd only had to worry about Reed using your insecurities against you, now he had enough ammo to get Fowler breathing down your neck with mandatory counseling and suspension (and that's if he gives you the benefit of the doubt). It seems that every oversight and wrong choice you've experienced in your life has accumulated and lead up to this very moment. You're undeniably indebted to him. This fact does not bring any form of relief, only making you try and shrink away from his eyes and make yourself appear as small as possible. If the ground tried swallowing you up now, it may not be the worst thing ever.

Reed doesn't offer much explanation to your original question, only advising you to rest when he plucks the feline off of your back. This strategy felt less like an act coming from the goodness of the detective's kind heart and more to threaten your mental stability. When questioned about the disappearance of your clothes, he insists that Officer Chen was the one who changed you out of them. Before you can press him further, he states that they've gotten you temporarily excused from coming to work (again, without much explanation as to how). Another debt that will need to be paid. You sigh deeply. They were beginning to pile up.

"Didn't you think after gettin' the shit beaten out of yourself the first time that you were way over your head at these fights?" He tilts his head to examine your body. The attention makes your skin crawl. Especially when it's likely that the clothes you're wearing are his. "Take karate or somethin'. Sheesh."

"Has nothing to do with you." 

"You think you can use _that_ excuse now? When you’re beaten up on _my bed_ and I was put on the spot to cover for you?"

It would’ve been much easier to just stay quiet rather than having to drag your thoughts out from the thick brain fog making every idea sluggish.

“I didn’t ask for your help.” Reed’s face fills with color, jaw ticking as he shifts his glare to the wall. A familiar tension returns and is palpable. It’s clear that it was the wrong thing to say. Maybe you weren’t supposed to want to deal with everything alone so much, certainly not when you needed it most.

“You just don’t know how to make shit easy huh.” He says through gritted teeth and finally leaves the room, closing the door behind him.

The choices you’ve made always seem to be at odds with just about everyone you’ve encountered. A view you’ve only began questioning recently in light of recent events. Not too long after, you pick yourself up. Muffled voices filter through the closed door and you limp out of the room following the sounds to the flat-screen in the living area. About the moment Reed senses you lingering in the wide doorway, he turns in his corner of the couch, "The fuck did I tell you!?"

The living room mirrors the bedroom in the way that it only held the essentials rather than any personal touches. Further to your right, an open kitchen with a island counter top dividing it from the living space. When your eyes turn to the television, it's to an episode of a reality tv show. Your eyes settle on the screen as a montage of social media photos slide across the screen. 

“ _Earth to New York_ —Would you stop standing there all quiet and shit? It’s really startin’ to creep me the fuck out.”

Returning your attention back to Reed, shame laces the memories of the past 24-hours along with the slap of guilt. You’re partly glad he wasn’t smiling or trying to convince you that everything will be fine. Things were far from fine and you didn’t need him to pretend. You make your way to the opposite end of the couch, hugging the cushion there to your chest. Reed hasn’t moved a muscle.

“What am I supposed to do besides _sleep_? I’m bored not tired.” You’re settling into the opposite corner of the couch when a breath against your ear makes you jump in your spot. A yelp and a groan as you try to recover from the abrupt movement to notice Casper jump from the backrest of the couch, running into Reed's lap. “Holy shit!”

From beside you, there’s a snort. “Yeah, the damn fur-ball just fucking appears out of nowhere. A _fucking_ ghost.”

\- -

The day you returned to the precinct, your eyes immediately seek out Fowler in his office. He’s on his own computer, a phone wedged between his shoulder and his ear, busy. Your body still ached despite the several sticky-pads worth of muscle-relievers you had stuck to your body. The medicinal smell was extremely potent and had officers in passing turning up their noses, eyes searching for the source of the smell. The attention puts you on edge, as if they were also waiting for him to notice your presence and bellow your name through the ball-pen. 

The strong possibility of having to deal with Internal Affairs is the cloud that hangs over your desk for the better half of your shift. The philosophy of Internal Affairs is frightening you into falling into line. If your IAD sergeant back in the academy treated minor violations like a capital offense, how bad could it get the moment you commit a real violation? You figure you’re soon going to find out.

Until it’s just past lunch-time and you still haven’t found out.

Nor do you find out the day after that.

Reed occupies your mind at every turn. What was he waiting for? He enters your thoughts casually, often encouraging some sort of paranoia to always look over your shoulder. Detective Reed represents a binding fear for change. Even during the weird instances the following few days where he passively inserts himself into your work-routine. Haunting you with outside pastries left on your desk (’ _Lost my appetite on the way here_ ’) or a plastic cup beside the fresh batch of coffee in the morning with 'NY' roughly scribbled on it with sharpie. The effort felt a lot like he was trying to supply your emptiness with some kind of substance that resembled… hope? _What?_

These happenings did not evade Connor or Hank’s attention (not much did in general). The yellow-LED was starting to become a permanent fixture almost anytime you’d glance Connor’s way. Whether it’s between their current investigation or Reed’s uncharacteristic behavior, Connor’s always processing, always thinking and trying to make sense of something he doesn’t immediately understand. Actually existing must be exhausting for him. The endless cycle of processing one experience one second and having to process another one instantly afterwards. Facing both Hank and Connor about the situation felt insurmountable for the time being. 

The precinct rooftop becomes a new temporary solace during your lunch break. A spot where you’re sure you wouldn’t run into a certain hot-headed detective. You lean against the edge, peering at the sidewalk traffic below. The dark hand of depression gently guides you a little forward, a silent encouragement. Nothing makes you more present than when you're a couple inches away from death.

"Officer (YLN)?"

The slam of the roof-top access door behind you pulls you back from the edge of your abyss. Everything sounded louder in this kind of cold. Turning around, Connor stands only in his blazer with his arms at his sides, unaffected by the cold. Whereas you’re sure that the lack of sensation in your finger-tips probably meant you should head back inside soon if you still wanted to keep them.

"What's going on, Connor?" 

"I've been meaning to check-in with you." Connor says, stepping towards you, "According to Detective Reed, you were involved in an... accident."

“You don’t believe it’s an accident.”

“Being aware of the events prior, I feel that it’s… unlikely. And for whatever reason, you’re covering for Detective Reed.”

You really couldn’t just have a few seconds without thinking about Reed, could you?

“Hank must not be too excited about you making him speculate on work-drama during his lunch break.”

“Lieutenant Anderson’s concern is well-placed. He refuses to speak with you unless you broach the topic first.”

“Yet, here you are.”

“I am not Lieutenant Anderson and… it seems by some coincidence, my social-protocols are malfunctioning.”

Connor made an effort to make the explanation sound casual, but you could tell by his demeanor and slight hesitance that he was feeling some doubt with his reasoning.

“Malfunctioning during the same moment you want to get some answers out of me.” You stuff your hands into your pockets just as a gush of cold air blows past you, “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you planned on ambushing me when I had no way of running from the conversation.”

“You’ll make a fine detective.” His smile is small, curving the corners of his lips and exposing a bit of the perfect teeth past it. The LED on his temple reverts to blue for the first time in what seemed like days.

Connor’s questions or Hank’s weighted stares, no matter how well intentioned, felt like pressure. Did the android really get it? Connor couldn’t have always had a fixation on fixing things. Being worried and anxious of other’s lives must take a lot of energy. You’re sure this need comes from a good place, but on this day in particular, you’re having a hard time getting a grip. Next week, is the examination. You weren't feeling the cautious optimism you had once anticipated but a layer of guilt that weighed down in your gut. Was it still appropriate to take the exam?

“Is Detective Reed harming you, (YFN)?”

“No,” A pause, “He’s… helping.” Or at the very least, something like it. Reed’s own version of help. You've yet to decide if you welcome it or not.

Connor's gaze becomes unfocused but his LED returns to yellow, flickering, then finally blue. A beat of silence before your eyes narrow, “You scanned me, didn’t you?” 

Connor had the nerve to appear surprised, blinking owlishly until clearing his throat and pursing his lips slightly. “It’s… a terrible habit.” 

You almost threaten to tell Hank on him just for the heck of it, but suck your teeth against this though and decide to focus more on getting out of the cold. 

\- -

Going on patrol with Chen seemed equal parts awkward and dubious. From the moment patrol begins, she doesn’t bring up the elephant in the room. You’re patrolling a different area of Detroit, one you’re not all that familiar with and a ways out of your usual commuting route. She keeps it work-related, she’s had more street time in these parts. Through one street in the neighborhood, she’s popping her chin towards the three gang-bangers smoking weed in a broken down car in a front yard, when rounding the corner she points out the dude slinging dope. You might not be totally new, but it’s like you’re policing two different cities.

When she parked the squad car, unpacking her quick drive-thru lunch, you finally bring it up. “You were there when he found me.” 

Chen pauses from unraveling the double-cheeseburger in her hands.

“What were you doing there, (YFN)?” Your head turns at the usage of your name, genuinely taken aback, “Were you undercover? You had to know that was Gavin’s case.”

“I wasn’t undercover. I was there… actively participating.” When you confess to it out-loud, it feels like a sharp rock had lodged itself into your throat, affecting your breathing. It hurt. The admission of it calling upon memories where your short-comings became apparent, influencing all the decisions you’ve made up to this point.

“Jesus.” She takes a big bite out of her burger, enough to bulge her cheeks as she tries to chew.

“Why didn’t he take me in? Why didn’t you make him?” You turn back to the narrow your eyes at the open free-way, “You both are practically accomplices.”

Chen barely swallows the food, “Just told me ‘don’t say a word’ and snuck you off in the back of his car like a thief.”

There’s an inner-city philosophy that’s more prevalent in urbanized cities, it’s the label of a ‘snitch’. Nothing was worse than being known as one and it’s often the very implications that discourages witnesses from coming forward. You’ve experienced the headache that comes when it hampers an investigation or when noticing the divide it creates between civilians and the police. While it’s easy to moan and groan this, law-enforcement had its own version. The Police Code of Silence. You’ve overheard some officers claim they won’t testify against another cop on the condition that they didn’t witness them murder someone. Everyone has their own caveat to the code. Turning in another officer is just as taboo as selling your soul to the devil. Usually best to write it off as ‘a bad day’.

You can’t find it in yourself to understand what fueled the detective to risk it. You’ve been in Detroit for less than a month, surely not long enough for near-familial bonds to form with other officers— where most of them treat you like a rookie. Let alone a detective you spent only a handful of time with. If anything, the only concrete fact Detective Reed knows about you is: you got issues. 

“I don’t know if I’m in the position to even be telling you this. But I don’t want you to just write him off because of the persona he puts out to the precinct.” She steals a glance at you, you catch the movement from the corner of your eye. “It’s not an excuse, but it’s what happens when you live in someone else’s shadow for a better part of your life.”

You feel a bit sorry for her then and could see that she’s used to having to back-up Reed’s character. What kind of experiences did she and Reed share that could lead up to this loyalty? Someone like Reed didn’t seem easily bought with minor acts of kindness.

“I’m not just saying this ‘cause I’m his friend on most days. If he really had some shit against you, he’d hit you where it hurt and feed you to the sharks.”

“That’s reassuring.”

“Squad 19, you got a 10-16 at Westend and Burdeno street. Caller states that the fiance assaulted them with a heavy frying pan to the face—Do you copy?”

Through Chen’s grumbling and acceptance of the call, she quickly packs her food. While the holiday-themed decorations starting to embellish the streets of Detroit should’ve indicated this all on its own, the dispatch-call does this much more effectively. The holidays were in-fact nearing. Domestic violence tended to spike during these times. So much so that the district attorney’s gotten comfortable calling it ‘Season’s Beatings.’ These disputes could be caused by anything, rarely was there ever a substantial argument for deciding to use an umbrella to slice a girlfriend’s jugular vein. 

Today, in the state of Michigan, you’re required to arrest the primary aggressor in all domestic-violence calls. Once arriving to the address, a male-android is sat on the porch, the front door to the house behind him is wide open. He’s covered in blue-blood and the areas of blunt-force trauma have peeled away the artificial olive-skin revealing the pearl white beneath like splatters of paint. Through several moments of garbled, stuttering static, he says his partner fled the scene. Despite this, you’re still entering the property and checking every room while Tina is waiting with the android for technicians to arrive. Even if a victim claims the suspect is gone, it’s not unusual for them to be mistaken or lie because they’re having doubts about their significant other getting taken away in hand-cuffs. 

There’s a good chance you’ll remain at the property for a while since these suspects like to call the house and check-in. In which case, it’s likely the android— James, you overhear Chen refer to him as— will put one of you on the phone with them. Do you think there’s much to it? Not if they’re drunk, refuse arrest or tell you to fuck off. The sun’s about to set, daylight savings. Only a few more hours of your shift to push through.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maybe Gavin's just a soft-boi under all those layers. I bet he wouldn't mind letting you find out--
> 
> Gavin, running towards us: There you fucking are! Say it to my face!
> 
> Me, ready to run: You didn't hear that from me.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you all were able to enjoy your Thanksgiving despite the constraints in-place. How did I spend mine? Hunkered down with a side of Boston Market. I was a bit worried that I might've been a little late with this update since I hadn't written this far in my drafts and b/c of thanksgiving (currently am and will continue to be experiencing the 'when the anime is ahead of the manga'-feeling from now until the completion of this fic lol) But here we are! no need to worry tho, we still have outlines to guide us into the right direction!
> 
> Here's to another update.

  
By some point, you’ve convinced yourself that you weren’t capable of feeling happy, going so far as to deny the existence of the concept that others were so readily able to describe in a state of dazed content. This probably occurred not too long after leaving the police academy and entering the real world. You’ve taken a job where you are not special, they’ve hammered this well into you and your graduating class. Get hurt? Sick? There’ll always be someone who wears the same uniform to fill your spot without missing a beat. 

The presence of police androids at the NYPD were just about as welcomed as hemorrhoids; treated between indifference and apprehension amongst your fellow officers. No one likes to feel replaced. To be replaced implies you are no longer valuable or useful. Pre-android revolution, they were walking-talking threats of replacements. Always hovering at your side asking if they could be of assistance because unlike the amount of hours you’ve put into training and improving your physical endurance, it was designed for the difficulties expected on the job right form the factory. Its purpose was always to fulfill the job requirements up to standards that even most good cops cut corners on.

Your threat no longer are androids. Your threat comes in the form of one Detective Gavin Reed who’s a walking contradiction as he stands several feet away between other uniformed officers. In the background, the grey downtown skyline, a fenced off construction site, all under a brooding sky. His investigation to close a suspected drug house has proved fruitful. Beside you, Officer Miller is busy cuffing the dealer himself when a device in the suspect’s pocket begins to ring. Looking between Miller and the suspect, your hand reaches for the phone and answers.

“Yeah?”

‘Yo, where Shotgun at?’ The caller asks.

“Dunno’, he decided to stop dealing to do comedy acts at the Fox Theatre.”

Miller visibly bites back a laugh while the suspect becomes extra antsy in his hold. He lunges and tries squirming towards you, but you continue to watch him like an animal in a zoo exhibit. Half-wondering if he’d really try something if he managed to get free.

‘Nah, where he at, baby?’

“Out of the life— got a new job at the circus.”

‘Man, fuck you bitch.’

“Great chat.”

Click.

From beside you a nudge and a plastic zip-lock is spread open, Reed holding it as you drop the phone in it. Miller takes this break in the moment to escort the suspect to the squad car.

“You finished searching the house for stashes?”

You simply nod. There were only a handful of uniformed officers including yourself at the scene making it easy to sweep out the toilet tanks, air vents, and candy tins for drugs. A few other uniformed guards kept a bunch of bug-eyed druggies who’d been at the house at the time of the raid at bay. You glance over at them, one of them a young male heavily-tatted, stares back

“Think he wants a date?”

“Looks more like your type. Shoot your shot, Reed.”

You drop your eyes, the day’s worth of exhaustion beginning to set in. Now that the suspect has been rounded up, you’re due back at the station to take part in the infinite amount of paper-work. Hopefully you won’t need duct-tape to keep your eyes open.

“Good job.”

Just two words and for some unknown reason, they just didn’t register. You knew what a ‘good job’ meant, but Reed saying felt like a rarity. It’s not often that you’re at the same crime scenes as him when you’ve spent most of your investigations alongside Connor and Hank. You look around, hoping to confirm if anybody else had heard it or perhaps your mind was playing tricks on you. At the moment, you’re not so sure which would be more unsettling. Before you could question the man himself, he’d already made his way towards Collins. 

Things just kept getting weirder.

Later that evening, you come across a drunk driver. You bemoan the timing being so close to the end of your shift. She drifts through the road and almost overturns into a stopped vehicle at an intersection when you finally manage to pull her aside. When you politely ask her to blow into the Intoximeter, she tries to pull air through it to later act confused why the machine wasn’t working. The trick to beating the Intoximeter? Don’t be drunk in the first place, there’s no way around it. Being aware of the antics of drunk drivers, you don’t take her side on this. Her license isn’t revoked nor are there any outstanding warrants out for her. Either one would’ve been enough to sidestep the DUI charge. Instead, you try and get creative in order to avoid the DUI paperwork. This works one of two ways: either by getting into contact with a sober friend to drive them home or to call a taxi for the drunk. Both would succeed in that it would take a drunk driver off the street.

However, none of which end up working out when the driver eventually becomes unresponsive, slouched over the steering wheel, muttering about pineapples and talking sponges.

Escorting the woman back to the precinct makes you actively avoid looking at the digital clock on the dashboard. You knew if you seen the time, you’d be adding another couple hours to your workday just to write up the glorified traffic ticket. If you didn’t handle DUI’s often, the paperwork is crushing in its length and redundancy. Sometimes even confusing. There’s a resounding joke out there that arresting a drunk driver is more back-breaking than a murder suspect.

Returning back to the precinct, you’re just in time to walk towards the other officers on your shift as they’re on their way out. Walking beside Miller, Chen meets your eyes and looks to the drunk you’re supporting with sympathy. She can tell that you won't be getting off the clock anytime soon. After you’ve dropped the drunkard in the cell, you return to your desk.

“Well, look who’s back.” Lieutenant Anderson says from his desk, leaning back in his chair, his terminal off. He must be waiting for Connor. “Where’ve you been?”

“Just got back on the street an hour ago and a DUI fell into my lap”

“Don’t you got that court hearing for the Petersons’ case tomorrow mornin’?”

“Bright and early at 8am.” A few hours before your own shift began. You scan the ball-pen, some desks still looked occupied, “Know anyone around who likes handling DUI’s?”

“Depends on what ‘ur puttin’ on the table, kid.”

“I’ll buy lunch for the rest of the week—”

“You buying me lunch?” You flinch in your chair, looking over your shoulder at Reed idling just outside the ballpen (When did he get there?), “You sure know the way to my heart.”

Reed invites himself over, snatching the gathered up paperwork from off your desk.

“Ain’t nobody would want to touch that damn thing with a ten-foot pole.” Hank mutters, pushing himself out of his chair.

“Yeah, yeah, screw you, old man.”

Past Reed, Hank raises a hand to you, silently bidding his leave from the conversation and perhaps from the station for the end of his shift. A minute passes in mutual silence. The only noise coming from the conversations carrying from the receptionists area and the flat-screen in the breakroom.

“You doin’ alright?” 

Looking back up at Reed, his face is obstructed by the opened folder at this angle.

“Just great—are you really taking that off my hands? If not, I’d like to not be here a minute more than I have to.” You extend your arm, hand open to receive the folder.

Another beat of silence.

“I don’t need lunch, New York, but I do need caffeine. Salted Caramel Mocha with two shots of espresso on my desk. For the rest of the week. Now, scram.” He closes the folder and heads towards his desk.

You watch after him, at a loss. While it’s beginning to be somewhat of a natural occurrence that Reed is doing you favors, your mind can’t help but be stuck on his coffee order. An interesting tidbit of information: Detective Reed had a sweet tooth. You hadn’t realize that your stare-into-nothingness has made it look a lot like you were still watching Reed and hes noticed. He’s paused from flipping through a pamphlet on his desk to send you a questioning gaze, he mouths the words: ‘ _The fuck you looking at?_ ’—And yeah, you should go before he changes his mind.

The pain that spotted your body earlier this week didn’t hurt quite so much. You’re not as preoccupied with it every minute of every day and the discomfort does not keep you awake all night. All good signs. Which only meant that it would be a matter of time until you reach the peak of the cycle because you were playing at being ‘better.’ 

Despite newfound connections you’ve made, the level of support from Hank, Connor even Chen and Reed weren’t loud enough to drown out the whispering in your ears that were prevalent at 2am. The wind outside your window rose, clacking together the branches of a bare oak tree and driving rain against the window in loud pitter-patters. When things seem to be getting better, it’s almost as if you miss feeling sad.

  
\- 

After a shift of patrol, you return back to the precinct to gather up your belongings from the locker-room. But only stopping short in your path when you notice Reed’s attendance. His back to you as he walks down the hall and into the men’s bathroom. The decision is made before you could give it more thought. You had questions, some that kept you up at night, in your experience the only way to get some answers is from the source. Solutions-based thinking after all is a foundational cop-thing.

When you push open the bathroom door, Reed’s stood in front of the second to last urinal. Eyes casually drifting off to see who entered, but doing a quick double-take upon recognizing you. Initially he turns his body away, trying to shake himself dry and tuck himself back in before you could draw nearer. 

“The fuck are you up to now? You lost or something?”

At the reminder of this you glance to the door behind you, flipping the lock with an audible click. 

“What are you _really_ up to?” 

“Taking a _piss_? You couldn’t wait until I came out to interrogate me?” He asks just as he flushed the urinal to move to wash his hands, “Hell, we could've used one of the interrogation rooms— made this more official.”

“Why did you help me? What’s in it for you?”

To any experienced officer in the precinct, you’re just some bit player they don’t know and can’t trust. Regardless of how many years you’ve had elsewhere, they don’t know much about your record. A walking liability that could get them killed. 

A tiny crease appeared in his forehead, “Let’s just say I got an idea what’s goin’ on in that head of yours.”

You stood very still, waiting for the world to stop spinning. Your veins ran with pure liquid fear.

He looks himself over in the mirror, eyes flickering to you, “I’m not tryin’ to fix you. You don’t need fixin’ ‘cause believe it or not, you’re not broken.”

Wasn’t the definition of ‘broken’ something that wasn’t working? Out of order. Your eye brows furrow, staring at the Detective as though he grew two heads. It’s becoming harder to see, a need to constantly blink to keep your eyes from getting too warm. You’re finding it difficult to speak this time around; your throat closed. The sensation of it dug into your chest, constricting your lungs. Too many thoughts at once and an unresolved ache you can’t put a name to. 

“Then quit with the fucking special-treatment.”

“Want to know why I covered your ass? You can hold your own even if you make shitty choices. ‘Cause you’d have my back when it really counts.” He pauses, as if second-guessing his thoughts, “I’m betting you would, anyways.”

“You’re a gambler?”

“Nah, I got shit luck.” He wipes his hands on the sides of his jeans as he walks towards you, “Ya’know what I’ve been tryin’ to wrap my head around? Why would _you_ become a cop?”

Conversations like these had a tendency to leave you with an undercurrent of irritation that could only be soothed when applying that dangerous energy elsewhere. Until recently, that had been through your fists. Why you became a cop wasn’t out of some inherently good and inspiring reason of wanting to change the world. What you actually find on the job are all the ways the world is a lost-cause and cannot be salvaged. So instead, it’s easy to say that you’re on this job for the stability and pension not because…

“You got something to prove? Is that it?”

Your gaze snaps up to Reed. Maybe you’ve been operating out of vengefulness all along—a defiance in response to all the wrongs against you; If there was someone there to guide you rather than someone throwing expectations, if you had better teachers or tried harder in the few friendships and relationships you’ve had. But the anger that’s been driving you for years makes you think rigid and automatic. A constant state of acute distress that makes decision-making with fewer alternatives. Is this how it feels like to be seen? So transparent? You haven’t been this vulnerable. Not for a long time. Until now, this never mattered. How much do you see?

Reed tilts his head, gaze sharpening. You almost thought you spoke the question aloud but he doesn’t comment on it. He doesn’t say anything at all. Good. A question like that wouldn’t be so easy to shrug off.

With your head down, you turn and leave the bathroom, speaking to no one, blood flows loudly through your ears as you head out for the day. Despite the distance, you carried an irrational feeling that Reed had also walked out with you. A few feet from your car, you come to a stop to look at your immediate vicinity just to assure yourself you were alone. 

  
\- 

  
Lately, you’ve been trying to think back to a time and wonder what you should’ve done differently. During this period where it was a rarity to get a sound eight hours of sleep every night, it’s unsurprising that you weren’t paying enough attention. Unaware of what lay in wait; the bigger something that is so obvious on the surface.

“Tonight. 730.” Your voice firm, authoritative enough to rival Captain America and yet for some reason, the inside of your gut churned.

Head hanging over his cup of coffee in the empty break room, Reed looks up, amused.

“You gonna’ show me what you learned from getting the shit beat out of ya’?”

“And then some.”

He laughs, loud and obnoxious, just before emptying the rest of his cup.

“You sure you’re up for it?”

The detective’s brand of teasing nowadays has shifted; he wasn’t fishing for a specific reaction and there wasn’t much of a bite to them. If you felt anything at all, it was the edging of bewilderment. Change and stress made a person feel powerless. Reed provokes complicated feelings; making you feel validated and understood while at the same time, small, undeserving and undermined. Could he be called a ‘friend’? This was the first small bond you’ve made with the him, it had itched and stung. Sticking to you like a leech. 

This time around your lips have a hard time remaining pressed in a thin line, “Wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t.”

Sparring has always felt close to a dance. On the rare occasions you have a sparring partner that kept to your rhythm, excitement bumped against your chest. All you could think about in this moment was Reed who looked equally engaged as you both circled one another. Spots of color appear in his cheeks and a light sheen of sweat over his forehead. Your size and speed gave you a noticeable advantage from the start, however, Reed has done his homework. No longer was he as slow or inflexible as he once was. Now, he keeps you on your toes, he’s using his legs for more than just moving around.

Each round drags on longer than the last. Hurrying a move or strategy increased the likelihood of something going wrong; missing a move, losing balance or being countered. Employing this method is a good thing, it made the practice more educational rather than how this all began as a way to blow off steam. It has you re-evaluate your previous performances; noticing while the anger you carried can marginally enhance accomplishing physical tasks, it didn’t necessarily help you fight strategically. 

Reed tackles you, but you strike his shoulder, once… twice and now you both are trading blows, dodging, countering, rolling around the mats. He’s still not comfortable being on the ground, you can tell by how quick he is to try and find his footing. Before he can put too much distance between you, the move comes in an instance. A reminder of the first time he swept you off balance.

A trickle of fear. A change has taken place as you stare down at Reed, keeping him pinned down in a similar manner he had done to you weeks before. His chuckle trailing into silence, the curve making a smile fades when he parts his lips.

Reed holds your gaze like he’s waiting for something. This time around, his eyes are distracting. They dilate, the greys appearing darker. If you looked close enough you’d notice specs of green. If you looked close enough, you’d notice that the tips of your noses were almost touching, the breath on every exhale intermingling in the small space between your lips. The little discrepancies that have lead up to this moment has emerged something.

You’ve both held this position for longer than necessary. Long enough for there to be questions. This was no longer a matter of holding Reed down, hes stopped struggling for seconds now and you’ve eased up on the grip you had on his wrists. Maybe you’ve been grasping at straws when trying to rationalize the unacknowledged pathetic clenching swoop your heart had been doing around Reed. A physiological reaction that was confusion-based due to Reed uncharacteristic behavior and your own lack of experience in dating in general. The last few minutes has made that seem unlikely. 

In the wake of the revelation, you feel a shock wave pass through you; leaning yourself back, taking your hands off of him and quickly putting as much distance between you and him as you can. Electricity rushing through your body and the tingling awareness that reminded you of something a lot like desire. You straighten up your uniform because yes, it’s getting late and you needed a shower before bed. You were not running from Reed, you just suddenly remembered that there were other places you had to be—like home, where you can properly take the time to scream into a pillow.

“Hey.”

You’re already shaking your head. Unsure if its in answer to Reed’s distant call or somehow an attempt to shake off the conclusions your mind were coming to. You know how you feel about Reed— or at least, you thought you did. 

“ _Hey (YLN)_ , I’m talkin’ to you.”

On the button cuffing your sleeves, you pause. Not New York or any other nickname, but your last name. The change is almost alarming and the urge to look at him is stronger than your eagerness to leave. Reed is now sat up on the mats, surprised that you spared him a glance at all. His jaw sets and there’s a hardness in his eyes, but he doesn’t recover himself quickly enough before you’ve finished fixing yourself. You stalk away with your belongings, gone to your car to drive the half-hour back to your apartment.

You’ve reached a fence, teetering from one side and the other. You’ve seen glimpses of what happiness may look like, felt the beginnings of it. But what’s stopping you? Is your priority trying to defend yourself from something you think may happen?

Yes.

You wish that you had hope instead of weariness. The few moments you’ve shared with Reed had been a gasp of air. The problem is that he gives you meaning and giving that kind of power over yourself to anyone—especially Reed—felt terrifying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Depending on how the next chapter will unravel it could be the final chapter with chapter 7 being an epilogue of sorts/bonus scene. Probably won't know for certain until the middle of the week /sweats


	6. Chapter 6

You woken up this morning feeling not quite right. A feeling that even a spontaneous purchase of quality-brewed coffee couldn’t remedy. Something was definitely up. But perhaps this wasn’t the first true sign of it.

Where you’d usually make sure to keep your home in order before coming to work, you neglected to put things away. A small stack of dirty dishes in the sink beginning to pile up that you should get to soon if you didn’t want friendly visitors. You’ve done a good job at staying clean and organized, but it seems that today you were more comfortable in the filth and chaos. Maybe that’s the effect a lie had on you.

“Saw your name all over the assignment board for patrols.”

You’ve gotten to work almost ten minutes ago and stopped at one of the few vending machines lined up in the break room. Feeling a bit indulgent, you weighed on getting a packet of the pink wafers but must’ve lost your train of thought at some point.

Guilty, you look up and to your side, catching Chen’s knowing eye. Did she know why you were sticking to a week full of patrols?

“The exam’s in a few days, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

“Thought you might’ve decided to take a load off and review with Connor and the Lieutenant.” 

Being hyper-focused on the exam wouldn’t help. Nor could you confront Reed with the invitation to spar after the shit-show the last one turned out to be. When adults had problems they didn’t want to face the clear solutions were to one, drown yourself in work or two, drink yourself stupid.

Drinking was a past-time you frequently engaged in when you were younger surrounded by friends, thriving in the invicibility of young age and having a liver of steel. The result of those adventures left you no longer very fond of hard liquor and the terrible hangovers that followed.

Looking back to the pink wafers on the lowest row, you begin weighing your options. A smarter snack purchase may have been the fruit snacks packets or the granola bars but the count-down to examination day has your anxiety running high and craving some sweet carbs.

“Well, look at what the cat dragged in.” Somewhere behind you, you hear boots walk across the vinyl tile, in the reflection of the vending machine window, Reed’s form closes in. “You look like crap.”

“Ha, funny. The little bastard had nothin’ to do with it this time.” And he sounds like it too, your mind unhelpfully adds. “Went out yesterday for interviews—Came up jack with a side of squat.”

“Does that mean we’re still on for tonight?”

On any other day, you might’ve tried to join in on the small talk, but you were too focused on how fast your heart was racing, and the way Reed kept trying to catch you gaze through the reflection. You couldn’t bear to face him right now. A part of you wants to talk about it— whatever this thing was that lingered in the air between you. If he had turned away, at least you would’ve known where the boundaries were. Take the ‘L’ and the embarrassment and keep it pushing. The other part however, was more inclined on sweeping the matter under the rug, wanting to blame the event on getting too lost in the moment.

Fishing your phone out of your pocket, you raise it to the card-scanner. Beep. Followed by more beeps before the pink wafers are pushed out of the spiral holder and your hand is reaching in through the dispenser door.

“Fucking sweets in the morning, New York?”

Chen scoffs, “Did you forget the kind of coffee you drink? I feel cavities forming whenever you make an order.”

“Oh, fuck off, T.” Reed grumbles.

“So, (YN)!” Chen turns back to you, unfazed, “We usually spend a night out once a month at the bar down the street. Want to come with?”

“Yeah-uh I don’t drink.”

“I’m sure they have non-alcoholic drinks—”

You bought the pink wafers to give yourself something to do that wasn’t awkwardly standing off to the side or third-wheeling on a conversation. But to give yourself some time to come up with a response, you rip the packaging open, taking a piece and biting into it. You didn’t want to out-right lie to people who confronted liars as a part of their job. Nor did you know what you’d say if they did call out the lie. A long second of chewing wouldn’t be enough to think that far ahead in the future.

“I’ll see if I get off on-time.” You settle on, ignoring the pull to look at Reed to gauge his reaction. Maybe this time, you’d go on the prowl for another DUI just to rack in on the overtime. Christmas may be coming but crime wasn’t known to be one to take holidays.

From the corner of your eye, you pick up the sudden jerk of Chen’s elbow connecting with Reed’s ribs. Then, a swallowed whimper. You glance between Reed and Chen, sensing something else there. You don’t call it out, clearing your throat and continuing down the hall toward the garage. (“The fuck was that for?!”, ”What are you? In high-school?“) 

Your head inclines forward, eyebrows pinching. What was that about? An interaction that you tuck away for later and a more lengthy examination. Right now, it’s work. Work, work, work. Your mind chants the word as though it’d be enough to keep it from wandering elsewhere. Albeit a band-aid, it works.

When the night-shift officer turns his squad car over, you find yourself sitting on a crumpled Wendys paper bag. Opening the glove compartment, you find the greasy hamburger wrappers from another fast food chain. This morning, the dispatcher doesn’t have an assignment for you right from the gate. Until then, you’re examining the vehicle for damage, leftover contraband in the back seat and ensuring you’re stocked with enough road flares, reports, and charged LED holographic crime barriers. Hopefully the lull in activity will pick up as soon as you’re done with routine inventory.

  
-

  
Cold air prickles your exposed skin. Today is the day you’ve been waiting for since arriving in Detroit: the detective examination.

Just entering into December and the weather did not fail keeping up with the times—climate change be damned. Snow fell heavily from a white sky as you drove along the interstate towards the testing site. The wipers beat away at the snow while you try to focus on the clean patch of road ahead of you. You drive through the fancier downtown area of the city, passing by several coffee shops, a pilates studio and a smoothie shop.

Finding free street parking takes over twenty minutes and several blocks from the testing site. Even with the car turned off, your hand is still wrapped over the steering wheel, you weren’t ready to commit to leaving the car. 

This job is rife with ethical grey areas. You’ve already stepped over the line, next time the line will only get pushed further back. You’re not interested in finding out where you’ll find yourself at the end of all this. The threat of losing your credibility as a cop also meant that your career as one would likely be over. That kind of reputation follows you everywhere. Lifting up your phone, the screen lights with the default wallpaper and the time. Only twenty minutes to head inside and get prepared.

-

  
Rain pelts against the tall fogged up windows in your living room. Playing in the background is your television, volume low as to not be too distracting but high enough to fill the apartment with something aside from the stench of pity that’s been potent in the air—most likely connected to the three days of self-isolation since being sent home. Perhaps that's the dangers of having a job that consumed your life. With all this time available to you now, you just didn’t know what to do with it. What did civilians your age do? Ideally, they’d meet with their friends (none of which are in Michigan), binge watch a few interesting series (what was popular nowadays?), practice a hobby(that requires some level of self-discipline that you're not sure you have)—

Since your abrupt decision to come clean to Fowler, you’ve purposely kept your phone out of sight. In another room, somewhere. It feels much needed to use this time to re-group and sort out your thoughts. Return to some semblance of normal by cleaning up your apartment, shifting around some furniture and cleaning out your fridge. After all, it’s how you react to these complicated events that will either break you or make you into the person you were always meant to be. You're hoping to come out of this with a better head on your shoulders.

You needed to re-build your foundation and you could not do this on an empty stomach.

A series of banging against your front door startles you off of your couch. Have to hand it to the take-out guy for knowing how to get a tenant’s attention.

“Just a sec’!”

You’re digging in your pocket for your crumpled twenty when you swing open the door to face the delivery person. Your movement comes to a stop at the sight of Reed startled as you are, staring back. It’s clear that he hadn’t been expecting you to answer. The dark circles under his eyes seem more prominent, the flickering hallway scone made his five-o’clock shadow appear heavier than usual. 

“We need to talk.” Reed says, shooting you a haughty look. “You expecting someone else?”

You stare hard at him for a beat, hesitating, unsure of what to do. Taking a step back, you spin around, leaving the door open in a silent invitation. Wordlessly, he enters. Awkward silence. The click of the door locking behind you. 

“You weren’t picking up your phone.”

“Forgot where I put it.” Looking around the open kitchen having cleaned everything a few hours earlier, there wasn’t anything for you to do. So, you take a seat at the small circular kitchen table with three chairs. Taking in Reed, looking out-of-place as his eyes scan your apartment. You should’ve picked up your laptop when you had the chance. “Where’d you even get my number and my address?”

Reed glances to a photo pinned onto your freezer door; you and a group of your friends splayed out across one of their small couches in their New York City apartment. Smiles crinkling the corner of most of their eyes as you all had raised up your drinks towards the camera. A testament to a friendship that has thrived through the years of young adult-hood. A friendship that seems more like a distant memory to you when you’re more than five-hundred miles away.

“You wanna’ explain why you told Fowler what happened?”

Silence as you melt into confusion.

“I left you and Chen out of it.” Your eyes glance towards your laptop, still on the couch. Should you move over there before Reed bursts a blood vessel? The way he clenches his jaw bulges a particular vein along the side of his neck. “Told him I convinced you to lie for me. He probably didn’t buy it but Fowler shouldn’t give you much trouble.”

“Don’t you _get_ it? No one would’ve _known_. Hell, you could’ve gotten your results back by now. Even with three years under your belt you might’ve passed the exam for all I cared!” His voice hardens, Reed crossed his arms and leaned into an empty wall. “Give Anderson a run for his money.”

“First, you somehow got my number, my address— now, you’re poking your nose into my folder?” You stare, nose scrunching, “How’d you even get a hold of my folder?”

Reed walks towards you, his hands gripping the opposite sides of the table when he bends overs into your space. His lips purse into a thin line, face darkening. The confrontation brings you to a pause. Intimate. He knows you’re trying to shift the conversation in a different direction.

“I’m askin’ the questions here.” He says, cop-like.

“Not in _my_ home, Reed.” You hiss, sitting up straighter in challenge.

For several seconds, it’s as though both you and Reed are frozen in time, unmoving, not even breathing. Then, a deep sigh escapes your lips as you’re crossing your arms over the table. This must be what it’s like to never be able to turn off the cop-part of yourself. Being on the receiving end of that no-nonsense command presence and the interrogation skills while in an over sized-tee and some patterned lounging shorts felt disorienting. Anytime you’ve felt the urge to spill you’d ask for a fight instead or stay silent until re-building your emotional walls back into place. After doing it for so long, its taken its toll. Most days, leaving you bone-tired.

“I couldn’t go through the exam with that on my mind.” It felt disingenuous, breaching the standards you tried to uphold within yourself. You had to stand for something, so you’d rather leave the lying to the criminals and hold on to who you are.

Reed opens his mouth, pausing mid-breath before, “Shit, how long did you get?”

“Two weeks, no pay, and an appointment with a counselor.”

“A slap on the wrist. That’s good.”

The words hang there. You look at Reed, intense, something strange in his eyes that affects the mood.

He holds your gaze, “The fuck do you want from me, (YFN)?”

There it was. Shouldn’t you be the one asking him that? Where did he get off acting as though he hadn’t been the one tormenting you for the past month? Reed was the one who made an impromptu visit to your home, badgering you with a mock interrogation where he could’ve waited until you returned to work (or found your phone—whichever came first). There’s that question again: What did he want?

Your mouth opened, but no sound comes out. In your chest your heart swoops, in your ears it pounds like a drum. Reed has been helpful but you don’t want to mistaken human decency for attraction (even if it came from an unlikely place). Neither when you weren’t in the best mindset. You don’t want to depend on Reed to be the one to drag you out of the hole you dug yourself in. That kind of dependency is dangerous. He can be a crutch, throw down some rope. But you’ll have to be the one to take it and try to pull yourself out.

“It’s my shit and I’ll deal with it.” You say, flatly. It’s not the first time you’ve recited the phrase, but it is the first time saying them out-loud and it shows.

His face giving it away, his words quiet, “I get it’s not easy askin’ for help. Been there, done that— still doing that.”

“You keep saying that like—”

“Believe me. It really is.” His eyes deepen, expression stiffening. You drop your eyes down to your lap, “All it takes is just a sec’ out of your head.”

You’ve fallen silent, what could you say? Everything you’ve been thinking over the past month feels close to spewing out of you and it won’t be graceful in the least. 

“You know how I know? ‘Cause I had my fair share on the shrink’s couch, alright?” Reed drops his head, letting it hang there. “I’ve been in the game longer than you, kid. Y-You don’t think I had my fair share of issues?”

Reed sounds so genuine, raw with emotion that the knot at the base of your throat settles deeper. 

The job changes everyone, for better and worse. Briefly, you wonder who Detective Gavin Reed was before the police academy. When he would’ve been with a fresh haircut and the extra-shiny shoes. The constant exposure to the toxic social conditions and the daily affair of dealing with people at their worst, a person tends to become more angry and skeptical of the goodness of mankind.

“So that’s why you’re an asshole.”

A derisive chortle, “Some days.”

What did you want from him? How did you want him? The second question makes your eyes flutter, blinking rapidly. A strange question to contemplate over unless you were considering something more. For the first time in a long time, you’re not being denied to indulge but able.

“Yeah,” Your mouth begins before the rest of you is able to catch up, “I like you, Reed.”

The confession is there, out in the world. No going back.

A small crease appears between his eyebrows, slightly irritated but focused. You're more used to seeing him sport the regular expression from behind his terminal or reading through paperwork. You otherwise don't know what to make of it until Reed slowly reaches forward, hand curling around the crook of your neck. His thumb idly rubs over your throat, likely feeling the hard swallow you take as it guides you forward, towards him. Backing out now would push Reed farther away and in spite of your practiced and perfected means of compartmentalizing emotions, you don’t think you’d be able to cope with that.

They always say that you’re one decision away from a new life.

Maybe, just maybe, your desire to change has become greater than your desire to remain the same.

At first, the kiss is slow, tentative. Carefully, pulling you out of your chair to reach Reed.

“Shit, ya’ sure?” He asks between a breath.

There was something oddly comforting about sharing this moment with him. Despite his smug and crude behavior, he’s proven to be an alternative for you. An invitation for growth. At some point your hands found their way to cradle his face, bits of facial hair scratching against your palms as you pull him back in.

The second kiss, longer, deeper, hot and heavy. Your control was beginning to slip in the shivers of heat and excitement down your spine.

He sighs against your lips, low-pitched with unmasked desire, “Heard ya’ loud and clear.”

“Reed, I better not hear you say it’s us against the world.” You say, all too aware of the way Reed was looking at you. Your issues are yours to resolve. Even if it is a commonality between you and the detective, it personally had nothing to do with him.

“Names’ Gavin.” Gavin’s smile fades. “Nah, it’s your fight. But you can bet your ass I’ll be in your corner.”

He finally rounds the table, closing the distance between the both of you. Before you could hesitate, you press your body close to Gavin, wanting to drown yourself in the warmth he radiated. When was the last time you hugged someone? Faint nicotine mixed with cedar and sandalwood clings to his clothes. Not something you recognized in the close encounters you’ve had. Something new? It reminds you of crackling embers of a bonfire and smoky firewood, Summer night trips to camping grounds in Long Island when you were a child. Gavin squeezes with the exact amount of bear hug you craved in the moment. 

Knock, knock, knock.

Gavin heaves a sigh, “No, seriously—who the hell are you expecting?”

“Chicken wings and pork-fried rice.” Reluctantly you tear yourself away, “Hope you’re in the mood for Chinese.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From the looks of things, this is probably where the story plot ends! Since Christmas is inching closer and I suddenly remember its December, the epilogue/bonus scene may be Christmas/New Years-themed (this was not planned either). The original story was supposed to take all of 7 chapters but I figured I wouldn't drag it out too long when it's already long enough w/ that word count-- 
> 
> If you're curious or in-need of some background music for writing/reading angsty slow-burn, Check out Agnes Obel's 'Aventine' album. It's a staple in my library. My favorite track is 'Dorian' ;) and is something I listened to while writing this.
> 
> (edit 01012021: SO-- right, I know I mentioned Id try to push out a bonus chapter by xmas/new years buut I was surprisingly busy and spent an unhealthy amount of hours on cyberpunk2077. whoops! 6 chapters will have to do!) Anyway, if you've been a part of the ride, popping in every now and again or leaving generous kudos, I totally appreciate it


End file.
